RIFF’d: Riff Raff’s ‘The White West’

Riff Raff follows up Peach Panther with another equally weak effort. The White West is one man’s attempt to ride out his 15 minutes of fame for as long as possible. From one song to the next he cuts and pastes lines that have already been worked and reworked by other more skilled lyricists. He’s played himself into a corner and turned into a caricature that not even he can control.

The production on The White West is as bad as the writing. The lack of ingenuity does little to stimulate anything outside of rudimentary practices. The lack of hype makes it a dull experience; no neon coated declarations, no obscure sports references, no pop culture plays, nothing. In all it’s a soggy, uninspired effort from a bloated lyricist who has already achieved his dream of becoming rich and famous.

Jody Highroller stumbles into a stodgy trap beat, and proves yet again that he is an inept tool. The attention towards his inabilities has him feeling like the planet is against him, which is part of his whole shtick; the me-against-the-world motif. He’s cruising the streets thinking about his wealth, syrup in one hand and a fake glock in the other. A train wreck waiting to happen: [LISTEN]

The snow analogies come storming in from all angles and none of them meet the mark. He’s portraying a life of opulence, but lacks the authority to confirm any details. The fraudulent ideas are tucked into every verse, and the beat mimics his contemporaries without shame. His vision is woefully stilted and he’s lost, trying desperately to claim a piece of the pie that he did not earn: [LISTEN]

Using an obscene amount of auto-tune does little to hide his paltry delivery. He’s standing at the foot of his newly acquired mansion with all his diamonds in hand. He’s bragging and boasting, comparing himself to Mike Myers, which is about right as his entire rise to stardom is tantamount to a bad horror flick. And like a poorly conceptualized movie every element is cheap and predictable: [LISTEN]

A quick, meaningless drive-thru verse that leaves the stomach wrenching in pain. He’s portraying himself as a rebel and sticking his foot in his mouth every chance he gets. He’s comparing himself to Allen Iverson, but is playing ball like Sam Bowie. He’s claiming that he’s as slept on as a mattress, but not the scientifically engineered kind. But the one you find in the alley behind K-Mart: [LISTEN]

By “swish” he doesn’t mean a made bucket, but rather an air ball that hits the front of the net. The beat is a throwaway, and it has him sounding like a fish out of water. He’s trying to flex on those who have doubted him, but the threat is about as shocking as a post 9/11 orange alert. The demands are getting to him, and he’s bursting at the seams; the competition proving to be too stiff: [LISTEN]

A dry posse cut that is about as inspiring as 10 hours of random cat videos. The novelty has faded and yet he insists on riding it until the wheels fall off; standard practice for the inept. The homies are trying their best, but as soon as the cups run dry he’ll be left with nothing. The demise is near, and he’s trying to accumulate as many friends as possible before it’s all over: [LISTEN]

The beat mirrors the creepiness of Jody Highroller’s reality, the dude that’s lurking in the corner always smiling. It’s a standard hodgepodge of rhythms that are supposed to mimic that of an animal on the hunt, the crew who rolls out at night looking for trouble. But being the weak rapper that he is, he resorts back to the only thing he knows or cares about: mounds of cash and nothing more: [LISTEN]

The same beat has been recycled so many times that it’s hard to distinguish one from the other. And as these things go, the lyrics fall victim to the same pattern. He’s making the case for his own show, and already has his theme song done. The first notion would be to give him a reality show which he already has experience in, but truth is his life story would read better as an animated short: [LISTEN]

Arguably the worst song in his catalog, the sound of a bird getting run over. It could be a reference to the James Franco, Spring Breakers nonsense or it could be another example of him relying on age-old archetypes to define his character. He thinks he’s the ultimate rapper, a style icon who is on everybody’s watch-list. A pathetic claim that has him sounding like a pampered juvenile: [LISTEN]

Another short clip that he’s trying to pawn off as an actual song. He’s lonely and teary-eyed, claiming that in his world it’s hard to make friends. There are too many haters, and it’s getting to him. The gentle sobbing is filtered into a cringe-worthy sing-song hook. In the end all he wants is a companion, someone who will comfort and assure him when his mediocre empire falls: [LISTEN]

The lack of intensity is astounding, as if he were sending a text while he was recording. The indifference is offensive and doesn’t translate the way he wants it to. He’s trying to be cool and calm, but lacks the characteristics to make it work in the booth. The crime boss routine doesn’t work for a bootleg lyricist. He’s an average minor leaguer trying to fake his way to the top: [LISTEN]

Rap’s biggest, most objectionable clown lifts his Burger King cup high in the air to toast the leeches who have stayed by him. He’s managed to fool all the fat cats into thinking that what he’s doing is entertainment. All he has are his high jinks, which include declining interviews, smoking in holy places and trespassing on government property; all of which never happened: [LISTEN]

A sloppy beat has Jody reminiscing about the good old days. He’s looking back on all those moments when he didn’t have anything to eat or live by. The thought has him flossing even harder, flashing his watch to all those who will look. He’s comparing himself to Michael Strahan, the only thing is that he is nothing like Michael Strahan. More like a practice squad kicker with no game experience: [LISTEN]

Jody Highroller reveals his true colors, a bloated goon with no hustle. He’s complaining about the grind, which reads as lowbrow and unappreciative. The languid beat drags the mood through the mud, and makes his claims of wealth read as transparent and contrived. He thinks he has the potential to earn a billion, which is the most hilariously entertaining thing he’s said all album: [LISTEN]

About Jeff Min

Jeff Min is a Chicago-based writer at SONGLYRICS. His work has appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, Hi-Fructose, Wax Poetics, SLAM, and HOOP.